


Perchance to Dream

by suchanadorer



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Dreamwalking, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-23
Updated: 2013-03-23
Packaged: 2017-12-06 06:49:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,637
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/732654
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/suchanadorer/pseuds/suchanadorer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Years from now, when Sam is huddled on a rickety hospital bed, aching and exhausted, he will remember this week. He will look back on it and laugh, not with fondness but with a keen awareness of how fucked up his life is, that the same angel can by turns make him beg for sleep and send him out onto the streets every night for four nights straight, fighting to stay awake.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Perchance to Dream

Years from now, when Sam is huddled on a rickety hospital bed, aching and exhausted, he will remember this week. He will look back on it and laugh, not with fondness but with a keen awareness of how fucked up his life is, that the same angel can by turns make him beg for sleep and send him out onto the streets every night for four nights straight, fighting to stay awake.

It’s not that he doesn’t want to sleep. _God, he wants to sleep._ He’s jumpy and nauseous from endless cups of coffee and the sort of pills he hasn’t used since his freshman year at Stanford when he pushed through all-nighters. But if he sleeps, then he might dream, and he can’t. He won’t. He refuses to give himself over to a place where he can not control his own thoughts, where the Devil himself walks in and out of his mind as if he has any right to be there, wearing a face that he damn sure doesn’t have a right to.

Sam sucks in a deep, cool breath and presses his fingers to his eyelids, brushing away tears that well up in response to the sting of the night air and the ache of remembering the last time he dreamed.

Wind tugs at his jacket, left open to help chill him as much as possible. The cold helps keep him alert now, on his fourth night without sleep. He rakes his fingers through his hair, swings his arms, and sings to himself as he walks. His legs feel heavy, and the soles of his shoes scrape on the sidewalk as he propels himself down the street. He’s been walking since he got off his shift, and the first light of dawn is brightening the sky, a fire on the horizon obscured by buildings and reflected by clouds.

Sam stumbles up the stairs to his apartment. When he locks the door, he presses his forehead to it so hard the wood creaks, just to feel the pain of it on his skin. He leaves his keys in the lock and kicks off his shoes.

An examination of the kitchen cabinets reveals the same lack of coffee that had sent Sam to work three hours early the day before. He forgot to buy more, and there will be nowhere to get any for another couple hours. He swears under his breath and shuffles into the bathroom.

He frowns at the face in the mirror. Dark bruises hang low under bloodshot eyes, and his jaw is shadowed by stubble. He’d tried shaving before work, but his hands had been so shaky from the caffeine that he’d given up on the endeavor.

He rolls his eyes at the scowling reflection and opens the medicine cabinet. There isn’t a lot there; Sam is used to getting by with unconventional medications. He picks up the little white bottle of over the counter stimulants and shakes it, but it remains as stubbornly empty as it had been this morning. One more thing he forgot to do.

He slams the cabinet shut and hurls the empty bottle at the sink, frustrated at his own body’s refusal to cooperate, to let his mind keep working rather than his muscles. He would give up walking if he thought that he could lie in bed and stay awake.

He splashes cold water on his face and strips off his clothes, kicking his jeans into the pile of dirty laundry next to the toilet. With no pills or coffee in the apartment, he has to keep himself awake by other means.

He boots up his computer and walks the length of the apartment while it starts. He fills a glass with cold water from the tap and settles in, checking news sites one after the other, a ritual that helps him feel connected to a life he walked away from.

Everything looks quiet, but Sam is not reassured. A lack of news just means they’ve gotten more subtle, or worse, that they are preparing something.

Sam yawns and leans forward, resting his head on his hands.

_Just for a moment._

Lucifer feels it. As soon as Sam slips into unconsciousness, Lucifer knows. He can not find his vessel on Earth, but Sam’s dreams are a place apart, and here Lucifer can go to him and be assured that he is safe and healthy.

Sam has not slept in days, and Lucifer has grown more and more concerned as he waited for this moment. He is relieved, but also discouraged when he sees Sam slumped over his computer. Early morning light slants in through the windows, but the screen is the brightest light source in the room. It glows around Sam’s face and hair, an artificial halo that deepens the shadows around his eyes and beneath his cheekbones.

Something inside Lucifer tightens as he watches Sam sleep. He is happy to see him again, but concerned by the length of time that Sam went without sleep. It must have been a battle, and Lucifer knows that he played a part in this, and it bothers him to know that his contact with Sam led to him to such drastic measures. Sam is so exhausted that even when he dreams, he dreams of sleeping.

Sam stirs, and Lucifer stiffens, suddenly afraid to be discovered. His instinct is, as always, to protect Sam, but it’s difficult when what Sam needs to be protected from most is himself. Lucifer won’t leave until Sam knows that it is safe to go to sleep.

Sam swallows and shifts his head, adjusting how his face is pillowed on his hands. A lock of hair tumbles down into his eyes. His eyelids flutter, but he doesn’t wake.

He is beautiful when he sleeps, even in the harsh light of the monitor. Lucifer indulges himself, lets his eyes wander over the breadth of Sam’s shoulders, the taut curve of his calf muscle where his leg rests under the table. Lucifer watches his lashes on his cheek and takes in the way his forehead smooths out, untroubled by everything that he will eventually have to face. Sam’s mouth falls open, and so does Lucifer’s, a perfect mimicry of his vessel.

Sam is dressed in a t-shirt and boxer shorts. Lucifer knows that he carries a chill with him everywhere, it’s a facet of himself that follows even into Sam’s dreams, and it will wake him sooner or later. Part of him wants to leave Sam to his sleep, but part of him is worried, selfish and lonely, so he stays, and when Sam shifts again, Lucifer moves to his side and brushes the hair from his eyes. His fingertips linger against Sam’s temple, and he tilts his head to better see Sam’s face when he wakes.

For one short moment, Sam’s face is still and peaceful under Lucifer’s touch. Grace and soul strain towards each other, but the balance shifts and Sam becomes aware. He blinks slowly, then starts, pushing back from the table and swatting Lucifer’s hand away. He stumbles back over the chair as he stands, and Lucifer helps him without thinking, catching his arm to steady him. Sam’s eyes are wide with fear that sharpens to anger, and he wrenches his hand away.

Lucifer lets go and raises his hands in a placating gesture.

“I’m glad to see you, Sam,” Lucifer says slowly, because it’s true and because he wants Sam to know it.

“No,” Sam moans, pressing the heels of his hands to his eyes and sighing heavily. “No, _no, no._ Dammit.” His brow creases and his eyes falls closed. The breath he takes sounds suspiciously like a sob, and for a moment Lucifer regrets his decision to stay.

Sam punches the tabletop and Lucifer starts forward before catching himself. He settles his weight and folds his hands in front of his stomach, watching as Sam paces back and forth, dragging his fingers through his hair and throwing furious glances at Lucifer.

“Wake me up,” Sam snarls. He charges forward, using the few inches he has to his advantage to loom over Lucifer. He would be more threatening if it wasn’t so clear that he is wrung out.

“You’re exhausted. You haven’t slept in days,” Lucifer says, looking up to meet Sam’s eyes with open concern and sympathy. “You’re hurting yourself. Why would I wake you?”

“You ruined my dreams.” Sam turns away from him, hands on hips and shoulders bunched up. His posture is a mix of sharp, defiant angles and the soft curves of the newly woken. The pieces fit together to show a man on the verge of collapse. “Do you get that?” Sam snarls as he turns to face Lucifer again.

Lucifer frowns and shakes his head, though he knows exactly what he’s done. He lowers his eyes and shifts his weight, trying to make himself the picture of contrition without having to admit to his crime.

“You took the best thing I ever had, and you twisted it into something evil,” Sam growls. He opens his mouth to continue, but something in his expression breaks, and Lucifer is pained to know that his greedy abuse of power has pushed Sam to the place where he’s now found him.

“You could have picked anyone,” Sam pushes. “Ruby, my brother, my mother. But no, you had to wreck the last perfect thing I had.”

Lucifer finds he can’t bring himself to meet Sam’s eyes. He doesn’t want to see what he knows will be there, and doesn’t want to risk Sam seeing the truth that he feels written on his face. He had succumbed to desire and need, and however distressed he may be by the pain and confusion it caused Sam, he had enjoyed it.

“You felt betrayed by Ruby, and you were separated from your brother. You never knew your mother.” All these things Lucifer says are true, but they aren’t the real explanation for his choice. Now that he sees the effect he had, he is ashamed of it, of the desperation that drove him to it.

“Every dream I have about Jess is a nightmare now,” Sam continues. His voice shakes, and Lucifer longs to calm him, but he waits, not wanting to interrupt. “It would be a relief to have a nightmare about her burning, because if she’s kind...” Sam looks away and covers his mouth with his hand, struggling to regain his composure.

Lucifer lifts his gaze when Sam is silent, and the emotion in Sam’s eyes shakes him. In his moment of weakness, he betrayed his vessel’s trust more than he could ever have anticipated.

“If she’s kind, she might be you, and I can’t take that. _I can’t._ ” Sam’s voice breaks and he turns away again, stalking off to the fold-out sofa bed at the other end of the room. “I can’t take it, so I can’t sleep, because if I do then you come here, invade my head and try to get me to let you ride me to the Apocalypse.”

Lucifer watches him go but doesn’t move to follow him. He wrestles with the feelings that well up inside him. He lifts his hand, ghosting it over the place on his neck where Sam had kissed him that night, remembering how his grace had sparked and flourished, invisible and overwhelming. It had been gratuitous, and he sees now that he underestimated just how much this woman had meant to Sam. He is embarrassed by his own need for connection and shocked by Sam’s show of vulnerability. That, more than anything, is evidence of how much Lucifer’s indulgence has damaged him. He had come here intending to reason with Sam, but now he finds he can’t bring himself to broach the subject.

“I didn’t think you would listen to me any other way,” Lucifer explains quietly. That’s partly true. He had wanted Sam to listen to him, but he had also wanted Sam to look at him like he was beautiful. Like he was attractive, and Sam was attracted. Lucifer relives the memory more often than he will ever admit, relishing the fondness in Sam’s voice and and the warmth of his touch.

Sam watches him from where he sits on the edge of the bed. “You said you would never lie to me. What do you call that?”

Lucifer sighs. Sam is right and he knows it. “Would it help you to sleep if I promised you that I will never do it again? That I will only ever come to you like this?”

He gestures up and down Nick’s body as he takes a cautious step towards Sam, watching him intently. Sam rolls his eyes and buries his face in his hands, but makes no move to stand.

“I promise, Sam,” Lucifer says as he moves to stand directly in front of him. Sam raises his head, too sad and exhausted for any more than a trace of fear or anger on his face. “You need to sleep. Let me help.”

Lucifer stretches a hand towards Sam’s forehead, but Sam recoils. “What are you doing? Don’t touch me!”

The disgust in Sam’s voice makes Lucifer pull back. He lets his hand fall to the side. “I don’t want you to keep doing this to yourself. You’re not well. Please let me help you.”

It is Lucifer’s attempt at an apology, and his grace twists and writhes within him, begging Sam to accept the offering.

“Why should I trust you?” Sam sneers.

Lucifer shrugs. There is no reason for Sam to trust him, not really. All Sam knows about him is what history and mythology has told him, and now he has experienced betrayal firsthand.

“I care about you. Let me do this for you. A gesture of... good faith. Let me fix it. I promise, that’s all I’ll do.”

Sam scoffs and shakes his head. Lucifer prepares for a rebuttal, but then Sam is swinging his legs up onto the bed and stretching out. He folds his hands on his chest and watches Lucifer with dark, wary eyes.

“This doesn’t mean a damn thing,” Sam warns him. “I’m not saying yes to you, not now, not ever. You want to help me sleep, fine, but I’m not going to be in your debt.”

“I would never see it that way,” Lucifer assures him, doing his best to hide his surprise at Sam’s sudden change of heart. “You owe me nothing. If anything, I owe you. Without you, I would still be in my cage.”

He knows that Sam does not look on that miracle the same way that he does, but it seems to pacify him somewhat. He has no idea what he said that changes Sam’s mind, but he is grateful for the trust he’s being shown, and he promises himself that he will not squander it.

“Sleep well, Sam,” Lucifer says, trying to convey all the affection that he feels in the simple phrase.

“Whatever,” Sam mutters, pushing himself farther down into the bed.

His eyes follow Lucifer’s hand as he reaches towards him. At the last moment, Sam’s expression tenses, then Lucifer brushes his fingers to Sam’s brow and Sam falls into a deep, restful sleep. The creases in his face disappear and every muscle seems to relax.

Lucifer leans down and picks up the blanket where it’s piled at the end of the bed. He drapes it over Sam’s sleeping form, pulling it up to his chin and tucking it in around him with careful attention. He smooths Sam’s hair away from his forehead and bends, bringing their faces close together.

“I love you, Sam,” he whispers, his mouth just barely touching the shell of Sam’s ear. “I love you, and I’m sorry.”


End file.
